I have befriended the dust bunnies that live under the kitchen stools. One is long and thin, with an errant Christmas tree needle for what I assume is a tail. The other is a bit chubbier with dust-fluff, and a tiny scrap of pink construction paper which I assume is a nose. Sometimes, between changing the latest load of laundry and wiping the day's stickiness off of the counters, I sit down at the table and chat with Walden and Gertrude. That is what I named them, after they had been there so long I decided to let them stay.   Walden (left) and Gertrude (right) Yesterday, as I swept away last night's dinner crumbs and set down a steaming mug of raspberry tea, I mumbled under my breath, "Why am I the only one in this house who cleans anything?"   “There ain't no answer. There ain't gonna be any answer. There never has been an answer. There's your answer,” Gertrude responded from beneath the kitchen counter.  "Ah, the question is not what you look at, bu...

For most of my teen years, I felt like the only fruit ripening on a dying tree. My parents were frequently unreliable and my living situation was forever unstable . I swore I'd claw my way up and out, but there was no trusted person I could turn to for comfort or guidance. Assurances that I was not the only person struggling, or even promises that I would survive, were few and far between. So I sought solace in words.  First music, then terrible poetry, then books - words were a lifeline those years. I found perseverance in 26 letters. When I made it to college, I began writing down the sentences that spoke to me.  It's been exactly five years since I shared the story of my quote book : a project I began in fall 1998 and have kept going for more than 25 years. Last of the first quote book   So I felt it was time for an update.    These notebooks (now there are two of them) are a timeline of more than half of my life. Each entry is a mirror of my interests, feeli...

The brain, that tired old thing, may forget poverty.  Yes, the brain -- in its middle-age fog, full of passwords and calendar dates and the shoe sizes of children -- may forget the squeeze of too-tight shoes with sprung seams and worn-flat soles, or the tickling drip of water from a wet dishcloth draped across the back of a neck to feign coolness when air conditioning is too expensive. The brain may forget poverty, but the body remembers. Photo by meo/Pexels   The brain may sweep the day's headlines for signs of an end to the dysfunction in government that holds paychecks for ransom. The brain may even acknowledge a comfortable safety net of savings that can pay the bills, but the body remembers the long brittle wait in anticipation of relief.  Then the body becomes a ball of knotted kite string perched on the back of a scratchy couch, the raised plaid yarns scoring a pattern of squares into knobby knees. The body recalls staring through a dusty window, harsh sunlight sla...

Forty is such a special time in a woman's life. Age spots blossom on your hands, your back aches for no reason, and if you're truly fortunate, you may begin to develop soft, jiggly jowls that small children can treat like Play-Doh. Yes, you're about to experience some wonderful developments! But don't be alarmed by the changes in your body as you mature from a young, vibrant woman to stale, middle-age goods. Some women may start this transition earlier than 40, and some may start later, so remember it's not a contest. It's all a natural part of growing old and being cast aside by society, a process every beautiful woman endures 30 or 40 years before finally dying. Perhaps the greatest rite of passage after turning 40 is going for your first annual mammogram. Also known as taking your sweater puppies to the vet, having your cans x-rayed every 12 months is an important screening exam to check for pesky cancer cells that can invade a woman's most private parts...

There's a saying in Texas that many (too many) women adhere to: "The bigger the hair, the closer to God."  But there's a lesser-known assertion that many teenagers believe: "The bigger the mum, the more you are loved."  In the Lonestar State, homecoming is not just about a football game under a wide twilit sky, a dance in a gym bedecked with ribbons and balloons, or dressing up in fancy clothes with your friends. It's about homecoming mums. Huge, showy homecoming mums. Legend has it that fall-blooming chrysanthemum corsages have been part of the homecoming tradition since the first homecoming football game, celebrated in Missouri in 1911. Back then, a male would bestow this gift to his female date to wear during the festivities that celebrated returning alumni and residents. Texas being Texas, they took it up a few notches. In 1936, a florist added school-color ribbons to the traditional corsage for a Baylor homecoming game. And a Texas icon was born.  ...

I see those parents dropping off their cherished children at college. I see photos of the family minivan - so recently scattered with Cheerios and Happy Meal toys - now filled to the windows with clothes, bedding, and furniture. I see dads manning a push-cart full of belongings up a sidewalk and into a dorm elevator. I see moms helping their children make the twin-sized bed, unfurl the curtains across the window, fold into drawers the clothes that suddenly seem so big and still so small. I see fierce goodbye hugs laced with tears, parents telling children to call home every single day to check in. A complicated potpourri of pride and joy and grief and embarrassment.  And I remember how my going-off-to-college experience looked nothing like that.  As a child of parents who couldn't be relied upon, I mostly did it alone. My dorm, 1998 I suppose I always assumed I'd go to college. I didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up, but I'd been told over and over that colleg...